


unlikely

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ABO, Alpha John Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Changes, Breast development, Breasts, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform, Lies by Ommission, Lying Sherlock, M/M, Male Pregnancy, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Omegaverse, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sherlock, Supportive John, Unplanned Pregnancy, body image issues, male breasts, pregnancy fic, secrecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Sherlock has always been an unlikely man. Unlikely to make friends, to fit in with other Omegas, unlikely to find a mate. Unlikely to become pregnant.But John Watson never made him feel unlikely. And, just as John beat the unlikely odds by choosing to love Sherlock Holmes, he coaxed another unlikely out of the universe - this time in the form of two little pink lines.----Originally posted November 19, 2020 for the Holmestice Winter Collection. Date changed upon reveal.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 48
Kudos: 323
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	unlikely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [796116311389](https://archiveofourown.org/users/796116311389/gifts).



> Holmestice prompt: 
> 
> _If you're up for it, I would love a fic where Sherlock or John starts gaining weight and then realizes they're pregnant._
> 
> _Additionally, this year if at all possible (I understand completely if it's too much) can there be a focus/angst on them suddenly having proper breasts? Like all those hormones and changes and they go from flat chested to sizable in a short period of time? Body image related angst because they never really contemplated the changes pregnancy would cause?_
> 
> _And of course they hide their changing body and personal revelations of the cause from the other until it becomes too obvious. Once the other finds out they're pregnant they're elated and love them despite or even because of the changes to their body._
> 
> This is my first time writing a pregnancy fic, so I hope I've done the prompt justice. Also, thanks goes to OmalleyMeetsTibbs for the beta!

**Six Weeks**

His heat is late. The morning passes with him bent over the toilet bowl, gagging, for no other reason than his body seems dead-set on emptying itself of anything considered substance. Afterward, Sherlock stares at himself in the mirror, hands drifting over the subtle rise of his torso. Trailing down to the slight dip where his abdomen meets his pelvis and flares out into the narrow swing of his hips.

His heat is late, and it feels like a betrayal as he plays his fingers over and over the stretch of skin between navel and pubic bone. The span of flesh feels soft beneath his fingertips, and Sherlock wonders at the phenomenon of change. At the circumstance of life and growth and the pulsing, particular cadence of fertilization.

 _Unlikely._ That was the word Mike Stamford used at his last check-up. A word Sherlock feels has followed him through much of his life.

 _Unlikely_ to make friends with his peers. _Unlikely_ to fit in with other Omegas. _Unlikely_ to find a mate. _Unlikely_ to catch the eye of an Alpha worth keeping.

 _Unlikely_ to become pregnant.

Something about Sherlock's hormones, too low or too high. Whatever the specifics, Sherlock long since deleted the information. He heard what mattered, that he was _faulty_ and _unlikely_ to bear children for John.

John Watson. His Alpha, his partner, his pure sunlight incarnate. John never made him feel _unlikely._ Never told Sherlock he was anything less than a man worthy of love. Four years ago, Sherlock found the answer to his unsolved likelihood in John Watson, and he has since felt cherished. And now, with his heat two weeks late and his skin burning beneath his fingertips, John Watson has coaxed another _unlikely_ into the entirely possible. This time, it exists within Sherlock's own body.

The small, plastic stick from the abhorrently pink box sitting on the bathroom counter is just for scientific certainty. Already, Sherlock imagines the changes within. He can picture his skin swelling and rounding beneath his curious touch, hand still settled above his pubic bone, fingers splayed with cautious acceptance.

Two tiny pink lines burn into his retinas, a searing afterimage staring back at him from the little oval window on the pregnancy test. Sherlock blinks at the results, presses his hand a little firmer to his abdomen, and stares.

His heat is late, and Sherlock is, against all the _unlikely_ odds, pregnant.

It comes in fits and starts—little waves of uncertainty, discomfort, unease. One day, he is buoyed by the possibility of his body’s internal workings, and the next, he is curled up on the sofa, hoping to shut out the world. Or bent over the toilet bowl. Or, on two occasions, the kitchen sink or Mrs. Hudson’s bins, because his bodily systems rebelled far too quickly for him to make it to the loo.

His brain is too loud, shouting questions and demanding answers. Things like, _can Baker Street really accommodate a baby?_ And, _will a baby disrupt their careful dynamic?_ More insidious is the little voice that whispers, _will they be good parents?_

Worst of all is the lingering thought, the doubt: does John even _want_ to be a father? And, if so, does he want it with _Sherlock,_ of all people?

It’s not as if Sherlock has ever shown a nurturing side. Sure, he has softened under John’s gentle love. He isn’t the same man he was when they met, brash and hard, everything a stereotypical Omega isn’t meant to be. But he is still a far cry from the Omegas he sees in the park, carrying children on their hips, wiping runny noses and brushing away tears.

Sherlock's toes curl against the bath mat with an uncertain twitch.

He glares at his reflection in the mirror and imagines the buzz of life beneath the hand on his barely-changed abdomen, reminds himself that John knows all this. Knows _him._ Nothing that makes Sherlock, well, _Sherlock_ , has ever turned John away. He fell in love with the Sherlock that everyone else barely tolerated. It seems entirely illogical to think anything might turn John off the relationship after years of steadfast love.

But still, Sherlock agonizes.

John picks up on Sherlock's changed mood immediately. It’s hardly twelve hours after Sherlock confirmed his condition and walked four blocks to dispose of the pregnancy test in a random skip. Still uncertain why he took such measures instead of just telling John the news, Sherlock lies on his side in their bed, feeling confused and off-kilter. John’s lips brush the back of his neck, tracing the silvery indents of the bond bite pressed into his skin four years ago.

“Still no heat?” John asks, his voice warm and blurred by the edges of sleep. Sherlock shakes his head in silence, and a hand appears on his belly, arm tightening around him. The knowledge of what rests beneath that hand, of the budding possibility of life, tucked away below skin and muscle and fat, makes Sherlock stiffen. He slowly and carefully eases the strain out of his body, hoping John won’t pick up on the subtle change in his scent.

To his relief, John just snuggles closer and rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulders. It is a subtle marking, a rubbing of pheromones and a bid for close comfort, and Sherlock sinks deeper beneath the covers. John’s words are a soft croon when he speaks next, murmuring, “That’s okay, love. It happens when it happens. No stress.”

Comforted, Sherlock closes his eyes and lets himself relax into John’s embrace.

**Eight Weeks**

Two weeks after confirming the new reality of his changing body, Sherlock lays on the couch with his hands on his stomach, fingers spread over the taut skin. The nausea, after a brief surge, is finally beginning to abate, and he feels different. Sherlock is also sure there is a gentle curve to the flesh he touches. No matter that it’s still early, no matter that he knows it’s not entirely rational, he imagines there is a difference.

His appetite has changed. The cravings are strange and, to someone who generally sees food as no more than a necessary aspect of fuelling his transport, unnatural. Things taste different, smell different. He wants and hates the oddest foods in turn. Finds himself eyeing John’s banana and peanut butter toast with interest one moment and fighting not to vomit at the smell of black coffee the next.

His body is changing, and Sherlock is convinced he can feel a change beneath his roaming fingers. It’s hard to argue with your brain once it has made up its mind about something. He has always been a man of logic. But Sherlock can’t shake the idea that his belly will grow and betray him within the hour, exposing his carefully-kept secret to the world, to complete strangers, and to John.

 _John._ Sherlock hasn’t told John. He’s known this long, and John is still none the wiser. Supportive John, caring John, loving, patient, wonderful John, who takes no issue with Sherlock’s suddenly delayed ability to produce a heat.

It’s lovely, wonderful, patient, caring John who stands over Sherlock a day later with concern in his eyes. The little wrinkles at the edges of his mouth are beautiful in that they are just for Sherlock and Sherlock alone, those subtle signs of worry in a dear face.

“How are you feeling?” John’s voice is soft and uncertain, deepened by the love Sherlock knows holds strong between them. He can feel it in the air, in the touch of John’s gaze upon his brow, in the phantom tickle of long-forgotten contact between teeth and skin, in the bite mark scarred into the back of his neck.

“Tired,” Sherlock replies, the word slipping out honest and genuine. He _is_ tired. He’s growing an entire human being inside him. Of _course_ he’s tired, but John doesn’t know that because Sherlock hasn’t told him, and that’s no one’s fault but his own. John really isn’t to blame for not knowing the things Sherlock doesn’t admit.

A hand rests on his forehead, a calloused thumb smoothing slowly over Sherlock’s brow. He feels flush with cloak-and-dagger secrets, with the rush of hormones and new life within him. John’s touch is like a torch, searing love into his flesh.

“You’re a bit warm.” John sounds worried. The knowledge makes Sherlock want to open his mouth and release everything he’s been keeping inside, keeping locked up.

Instead, he manages a soft, indulgent smile and replies, “Maybe it’s my heat starting.”

John mirrors the expression with his own little smile. “Maybe.” He strokes his fingers over Sherlock’s left eyebrow before sliding down to squeeze his upper arm and leave him to rest.

**Nine Weeks**

A week later, John sits behind him and rubs tension from Sherlock’s shoulders with firm, attentive hands. When he tilts his head against the back of Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock feels the grooves and ridges of his frown, the turned-down corners of his mouth and the way John’s concern makes valleys of his familiar face.

“Maybe you should go see Mike,” he begins, voice tentative in the warm, shared space between them. Sherlock stiffens and tries not to let it show, but John’s thumbs rest on his trapezius muscles. It’s impossible for him not to feel the rigidity snapping through Sherlock’s body. “Sherlock…” His name is a murmur in John’s mouth, a whisper against the back of his shoulder. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Of course there is. There’s always _something_. No matter the love, the trust between them, there’s always something Sherlock isn’t saying. They both know it, but neither wants to give voice to the fact.

Sherlock turns his head and presses his cheek into the side of John’s strong forearm. “Of course not,” he breathes against warm flesh and the soft tickle of arm hair. “Never.”

John’s fingers tighten, pressing briefly into Sherlock’s muscles with a flash of discomfort before they soften. They both hear the lie, know there’s something left unsaid, but John is a veteran of the battlefield that is Sherlock Holmes. He knows when to retreat just as well as he knows when to press for ground. He falls back to nurse his wounded pride and regroup for a new assault.

Sherlock has never loved John more than he does right now. It might be an increased flow of hormones. Still, he thinks he would willingly tie himself to this man over and over, in a million lifetimes if it meant hearing the silent trust in John’s quiet exhale.

“I love you,” slips from his lips as easy as breathing. Sherlock feels John soften into him, his hands falling around to Sherlock’s front. They pass over his chest, pause briefly in a way that makes Sherlock’s breath catch before moving higher. One cups Sherlock’s jaw, the other stroking along a cheekbone as John presses a kiss to the delicate skin next to Sherlock’s eye.

“I love you, too.”

Sherlock calls the Omega Clinic and makes an appointment with Mike when he knows John will be working a shift he can’t get out of. When he tells John, the Alpha’s reaction is tight lips and regretful eyes, his scent shifting into the bitter tang of agitation.

“Are you sure you can’t reschedule?” he asks, following Sherlock around the flat as Sherlock fiddles with random objects. He feels restless, filled with the need to rearrange and move and touch and shift things. Some might call it nesting—Sherlock calls it annoying, but he can’t seem to stop. John just keeps trailing in his wake, frowning at the things Sherlock moves, the stuff he leaves the same. An empty mug moves to the windowsill, a dirty plate stays where it is. A potted plant from Mrs. Hudson goes over the fireplace, and Billy the skull disappears into a cabinet. John’s evident confusion over Sherlock’s actions goes unvoiced, choosing instead to pursue his line of questioning.

“No,” Sherlock replies, his tone a little sharp, snipping out from tight lips. “It was the only opening he had.” It wasn’t, but Sherlock is already spinning a web of lies. What’s one more?

John’s eyes narrow, but he nods stiffly. “Okay. Well… just let me know how it goes, alright?”

Rounding on him, Sherlock hooks his fingers in John’s collar and reels him in close. John’s eyes widen before his lids drop, pupils dilating with instant arousal at the unexpected gesture. His breath comes a little faster when Sherlock leans forward, his voice a rough rasp as he purrs, “Of course, John.”

John rumbles out a quiet growl and tilts into Sherlock, nosing at his neck and breathing him in at the hollow beneath his jaw. His tongue flicks out over skin, wet and warm, before he freezes, stiffens, and leans back with narrowed eyes. Under Sherlock’s alarmed stare, John’s pupils contract as lust shifts into suspicion.

“You smell different.”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows rises in an arched query. “Do I?” His heart races at the implications.

“Yes…” John’s lips purse, and he leans in as if to scent Sherlock again, but Sherlock turns his head and catches John’s lips with his own, derailing the attempt to glean more information.

“You’ll be late for work,” Sherlock murmurs against his mouth, taking advantage of John’s surprise to flick his tongue over John’s bottom lip. The result is as hoped, John growling again as his hands settle firmly on Sherlock’s hips, fingers kneading with possessive motions.

His mind filled with the image of his rounding, growing belly, Sherlock presses even closer, encouraging John’s hand to move around to his back and lower. As predicted, they do, and Sherlock smirks smugly as John grips his arse and nips Sherlock’s upper lip with a rough sound that sends tingles through Sherlock’s body.

“Fuck work,” John husks, ducking his head to mouth at Sherlock’s jaw. The hot, wet slide of his tongue over sensitive skin makes Sherlock shiver. His reluctance for halting the path of John’s attention is apparent even as he wriggles out of the embrace and steps back.

Sherlock rests his hands on John’s chest to keep the Alpha from following. Greedy fingers clutch at Sherlock’s robe as John’s hardening length burns between them through several layers of clothing, and Sherlock taps a finger to John's sternum. “Work,” he orders, grinning at John’s low growl. Giving in to the rising urge, Sherlock dips down and indulges in a heady lungful of John’s scent from the hollow of his throat before straightening, pulling the fabric from John’s grasp, and closing his robe. “I’ll see you after.” He drops a lingering kiss on John’s cheek, smirks at the quiet grumble he receives in return and sweeps away to dress for the day.

**Ten Weeks**

Mike sinks down onto his stool across from where Sherlock sits on the examination table in a thin gown. The Beta doctor’s brow furrows, eyes on the tablet in his hands. Knowing what the results of his tests will show, Sherlock swings his legs slowly against the side of the table, unperturbed. When Mike raises his eyes, Sherlock quickly schools his expression into mild curiousity.

“Sherlock, did you know you were pregnant?” Mike asks the question carefully, eyes tensing at the corners as he seems to brace himself for some anticipated reaction.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side, feigning surprise. “Am I?”

“You don’t seem alarmed by the news.” Tapping a finger to the tablet, Mike waits for a reply, receiving only a small, polite smile from Sherlock. “You’re just past two months, Sherlock.” Still waiting for an answer that never comes, he sighs and asks, “How long have you known?”

Eyes shifting to the side, Sherlock fidgets with the sleeve of the gown. “About two weeks after my heat was late.” When he looks at Mike, the Beta’s eyes are wide until his expression slips into a professional facade, and Mike nods. He makes a note on the tablet.

“Right.” Looking up again, he asks, “Why haven’t you told John yet?”

Sherlock flinches, startled at being seen through so quickly. Smoothing his expression into a blank mask, he meets Mike’s gentle gaze with a hard stare, chin jerking upward. “What makes you think he doesn’t know?”

Sighing, Mike sets the tablet aside before resting his hands on his knees and turning his full focus onto Sherlock. “Because I know John. And I know he’d be here if he knew.”

“He had work,” Sherlock protests weakly, but Mike’s sad little smile tells him the lie falls flat.

“He would be here.” Picking the tablet up again, Mike taps at the screen. “I’m going to run some tests and schedule an ultrasound.” When he looks up, his expression is sympathetic but firm. “I won’t tell you what to do, Sherlock. But if you’re planning on keeping this baby—” His words cut out as Sherlock speaks over him in a louder voice.

“Of course I’m keeping it,” he snaps, affronted. Mike’s expression is nothing but deeply kind when he responds.

“Of course. I just wanted to say, John should know. He’ll find out soon enough. You’ve always been on the slender side, Sherlock. I imagine you’ll start to show soon. It will become too obvious for you to hide much longer.” Mike pauses as if carefully considering his next words. “Have your breasts started to develop yet?”

Scowling down at his lap, Sherlock nods once, the gesture stiff. Mike’s quiet sigh is startlingly loud in the cold room.

“Okay. I’ll take some blood and do an exam now if that’s alright?” Another stiff nod. “Okay. Then we’ll schedule the ultrasound. Normally, I would have had you in for one before now, but better late than never.” Standing, he touches Sherlock’s shoulder with light fingertips. “It’ll be okay, Sherlock. I’ve got you.”

All Sherlock can manage is yet another nod, his words trapped somewhere behind his tight throat.

**Eleven Weeks**

His test results and exam both show Sherlock as perfectly healthy. By all signs, the baby is as well, even if it’s still early in the game.

Instead of feeling reassured by the results, Sherlock finds himself struggling with a new terror: telling John about the pregnancy. Because Mike is right, and Sherlock can’t expect to hide the truth forever, if only because his body will expose him soon. And if not that, then the looming date of his first ultrasound will.

Two weeks. Sherlock has two weeks to figure out how to tell John he’s been lying to his face for over two months.

He lies in their shared bed with John still slumbering beside him, John’s brow furrowed from their talk the night before when Sherlock told him Mike simply said to be patient about his late heat. A heat Sherlock knows simply isn’t coming because his body is preoccupied with much larger matters. Like creating life and making space for an entire human being between his organs and his skeleton. Bones shifting and body changing, all for an unlikely collection of cells, of DNA, of him and John... _John_.

Hands slipping beneath his loose t-shirt to rest on his stomach, Sherlock feels the subtle growth of his abdomen and knows Mike is right. He can’t hide this much longer, no matter the strange, irrational urge to do so. Most people don’t tell those in their life that they are with child until the three-month mark has passed, and things are more concrete, less of a risk. John knows this. He may not specialize in Omega pregnancies, but he’s undoubtedly handled the odd pregnant Beta, and, regardless, he is a man of science. He’ll know of the three-month concession.

Somehow, Sherlock doubts that concession is usually extended between sexual partners. He suspects few pregnant persons delay telling their partner for longer than it takes to cross a room or pick up a phone.

Sherlock has never been like other people, though, has he? It only tracks that he would fail to handle something so personal in a way outside the norm. How is he meant to explain this to John when he can’t even explain it to himself? The unlikeliness of pregnancy made into a tangible reality rests beneath his fingertips, and Sherlock still can’t wrap his head around it. It’s as unlikely as someone like John Watson—someone bold and brave, strong and sure, handsome and honourable—loving someone like Sherlock Holmes. Someone cold and callous, hard and harsh, surly and sharp. Yet that happened, and this did, too, this life growing beneath Sherlock's skin, within his very body.

The unlikely body of a man in unlikely love with an unlikely human being like John Watson.

Sherlock will tell John. He _will,_ he _must_ , and he _will_. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, he will smooth the furrows from John’s creased brow and tell him the truth.

When he wakes in the morning, John is already up and absent from the bed. Sherlock feels the cold space next to him, fisting his fingers in the sheets to the sound of John puttering around in the kitchen. It’s not uncommon for John to wake before him, especially in times like these, when there are no cases to send them rushing about in the witching hours of the night.

However, it is one of the first times Sherlock can recall not climbing the walls with desperate boredom in the absence of a case. His mind has been occupied. Turning over and over the dilemma of his dishonesty, his omission by silence. There has been little room left over for considering the happenings of criminals.

The realization feels appallingly wrong, and Sherlock clutches the sheets tighter, scowling up at the ceiling. John finds him that way a few minutes later, bringing the smell of PG Tips and bacon with him. Sherlock feels a faint flutter of nausea and clenches his jaw against the memory of morning sickness. He prays it won’t make a spontaneous resurgence with John frowning sadly down at him with dark eyes. To Sherlock’s relief, the feeling passes, and he manages to aim a small, sleepy smile up at his partner.

John purses his lips and reaches out to touch light fingers to Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you,” he says, making it sound like a confession. His tone has Sherlock hanging on his words, blinking up at John with a gaze he feels can only be described as _besotted._

“I love you,” he whispers back before turning his head to mouth at the tips of John’s fingers. The gesture brings a small, tight smile to John’s face. The sight of it makes Sherlock’s stomach twist beneath his hands, which once again rest under his shirt, over the subtle swell of his belly. He is unquestionably beginning to show, and the realization is earth-shakingly alarming. John is speaking, and Sherlock forces himself to focus.

“I’ll see you after work. Takeaway tonight?” Sherlock’s silent nod makes John’s smile grow a little, a small victory that Sherlock cherishes and clutches close to his heart. “Haven’t had sushi in a while. What do you think?”

Sherlock begins to nod again, only to freeze with eyes widening, and hiss, “No! No, no sushi.”

Taken aback by the sudden vehemence, John’s slight smile falters. His eyes dart over Sherlock’s face, searching beneath his lowering eyebrows, and Sherlock kicks himself mentally for the slip. He clears his throat and tries to regain equilibrium.

“It’s just…” he feigns a wince and rubs his stomach, grateful for the covers bunched over his body, hiding the gentle rounding of his middle. “Stomach issues. Might not be good, raw fish.”

John nods slowly. They both know there’s little risk of stomach issues for Sherlock where sushi is concerned, but John hasn’t made it this far living with a madman without making concessions at the drop of a hat, and he does so now.

Sherlock loves him for it. The feeling sits in his chest like a small sun, an echo of the life radiating beneath his fingers.

“Okay.” John nods again, stroking a thumb over Sherlock’s left eyebrow. “We can decide tonight.” He ducks to press his lips to the same place, then briefly to Sherlock’s mouth before he is gone. He leaves behind the smells of breakfast, wool, and of John himself, all smoky danger and radiating warmth.

Sherlock stays in bed. He works his fingernails into the sheets with one hand on his stomach and his head in the clouds.

Belatedly, he realizes he didn’t tell John about the baby.

**Twelve Weeks**

Before Sherlock can decide how to break the news of his omission to John, his body betrays him.

One morning, he stands before the wardrobe mirror in their bedroom and stares at his reflection in shock. He has been taking pains to dress only when John is out of the room or at work or in the shower, hiding his body's changes as he desperately tries to find the right words. Wearing baggy shirts and loose robes helps in his charade. But now, in addition to his growing stomach, something else is growing and becoming far more apparent and harder to hide.

Standing before the mirror with the sound of the running shower in the next room, Sherlock cups his chest. Once flat as a board, the topography of his torso has changed dramatically. Palms shaped along the curves of his developing breasts, Sherlock scowls at his reflection, affronted by his body’s latest treachery.

Sherlock digs in his wardrobe with a frustrated sigh on his lips for the measuring tape he keeps for tailoring. He measures the sweeping curves, the distance from one nipple to the other, clenching his teeth all the while at the surprising sensitivity of the peaks. Shivering, he wraps the tape around his torso, beneath each breast and above the ridge of his ribs, memorizing numbers as the water shuts off in the bathroom.

Filled with a rush of panic, Sherlock hurries to dress, shoving the measuring tape into a pocket. Later, it will feel heavy as a stone, a firm reminder of his duplicity. He’ll think of it as he sips tea across from John, his uncertainty and nervous regret feeling heavier still.

**Thirteen Weeks**

As the ultrasound date draws ever closer, Sherlock's breasts continue to grow, along with his anxiety until he is a jittering mess of stress. None of it can be good for the baby, and Sherlock struggles to keep his calm. He takes short walks, cuddles closer to John whenever he can for easy oxytocin. Plays soft, soothing tunes on his violin in front of the window as the autumnal weather whips leaves and debris down the sidewalk below.

According to the internet, his baby is the size of a peapod. Sherlock isn’t sure what to make of such a comparison. Why a peapod? Why food comparisons at all? It’s baffling. How can something so small create such huge ripples of change? A _peapod?_ Nothing the size of a peapod has ever derailed Sherlock’s life so thoroughly, and he feels a mixture of wonder and shock at the knowledge.

He doesn’t feel like himself. Not only because of the changes to his body but because Sherlock always thought, if he ever did manage a pregnancy, that he would be, well… _more_ himself. That he would track the changes down to the minuscule detail. Would measure the growing size of his belly and breasts obsessively, catalogue changes to intake and appetite, hormones and craving, taste buds and sense of smell.

Instead, he finds himself hiding, from himself and from John, both of which suck away his typical enthusiasm for scientific curiousity. Sherlock wasn’t lying when he told Mike he wanted to see this through—he very much does. In fact, he is _smitten_ with the idea of creating something that is a piece of him and John both. The very potential of bringing more of John Watson into the world fills Sherlock with a burning excitement that borders on heretic rapture.

He just never imagined the sheer level of _change_ such a condition would perform. Sherlock is a man of science. He _knows_ how pregnancy changes the body, _knows_ it is objectively monumental in how it does. He _knows_ all this.

Yet somehow, it still amazes him. Because he won’t do the expected thing and simply _tell_ John, he is doing it alone. Doing it alone when he has no need to. He needs to tell John. _Must tell John,_ if only to keep hold of his own sanity as his body shifts and grows. As it rearranges itself in deference to the peapod wreaking havoc upon his system in a way that is not entirely unwelcome.

Pacing around the room, he finds himself rubbing an absent, soothing pattern over a belly that has yet to even really form. _Sentiment._ He must tell John before all this sentiment becomes too big for Sherlock to carry on his own.

Still, he hesitates. Whenever he looks at John with confession on his lips, Sherlock can’t get the words out. The entire situation has become a mess of his own making, one that’s grown so large that Sherlock can’t possibly imagine how to set about cleaning it up.

To both his relief and dismay, the decision is taken out of his hands one morning.

He wakes early, well before John. The light outside is still grey and sleepy, and Sherlock wakes because his breasts are _aching._ They hurt, making him grimace and bite back a whimper. He’s experienced some level of discomfort alongside the growth, but this is something far harder to ignore. The tissue is throbbing and painful, hot and swollen beneath his hands. Touching doesn’t seem to help, but _not_ touching helps even less, and Sherlock kneads at the tissue, caught between a pained groan and the edge of possible reprieve.

Sherlock slides out of bed when the sensation grows too big to confine within the space behind his clenched teeth. He pads silently across the room, grimacing at the feeling of the cold floor underfoot and a full bladder as he slips into the bathroom.

Sherlock deals with his bladder first, breathing a sigh of relief. He avoids flushing so he won’t wake John and tiptoes to the sink. Washing his hands with hot, steamy water opens his pores and eases the early morning chill from his cold hands, enticing him toward the shower. Filled with visions of finding possible comfort under the steamy spray, Sherlock strips and makes sure the bathroom door is closed before turning on the water and slipping beneath the showerhead. The shower is likely louder than the toilet flushing, but Sherlock is too far gone in his discomfort to deny the potential for release.

The heat eases some of the strain from his body, shoulders relaxing even if his breasts continue to throb. Palms cupped gently over the aching flesh, Sherlock tilts his face into the spray and squints his eyes closed. He fails to muffle a groan as the pressure both eases and exacerbates the discomfort of his developing chest.

With his eyes still closed, he caresses the rounded shape of his still-small but definitely no longer smooth stomach. There is a noticeable rise where before it was only flat, and Sherlock both marvels and shrinks away from the reality of his changing body.

After so long looking the same, the shock is nearly as immense as when Sherlock first felt the gentle curve rising beneath his flesh.

Occupied with the tenderness of his breasts and the shape of his belly, Sherlock misses the soft click of the bathroom door. Nearly misses the sudden swirl of cold air, disrupting the steamy atmosphere until it is too late. The shower curtain slides back to expose him, and his blatant lies, to the sleep-darkened eyes of one John Watson. Who, in the middle of wishing Sherlock a warm good morning, freezes.

The shower curtain hangs from one hand, folded back and crinkled by John’s fingers, the interruption letting cold air into the warm bubble of Sherlock’s shower. He would be irritated any other day, affronted by John simply standing there instead of climbing in and joining him. It’s been ages since they shared a shower, thanks to Sherlock's cloak-and-dagger subterfuge. Sherlock can read John’s thoughts of a shared morning soak in his face even as his lusty smile fades into a look of shock tinged with hurt.

When he speaks, John’s voice is perfectly steady. It is as stable as his hands when he holds his Sig and isn’t _that_ fascinating? That discovering Sherlock’s gravid state brings the same level of calm that violence does? John Watson is surely a wonder. “Sherlock.” A pause, the sight of John’s throat bobbing with a hard swallow distorted by the steam swirling between them. “Are you pregnant?”

A sharp reply rises in Sherlock’s mouth. Words like _can’t you tell?_ And _isn’t it obvious?_ burn in his throat. He bites them all back, swallows them down and manages a small, tight nod. He braces himself for anger, for shock, for words of all kinds that will reduce him to nothing but a smoking crater.

But John's hand is still perfectly steady, his expression the epitome of calm. Face impassive, he reaches past Sherlock and turns off the taps. Sherlock stands utterly still, save for the small shivers that creep over his body as the chill begins to seep in.

John hands him a towel, looks hard into his face before relinquishing it, then turns and leaves the bathroom. He disappears into the bedroom with Sherlock staring after him. He feels frozen, rooted in place by numbing shock until he hears John speak from the other room.

“Sherlock. Come here.” A pause, as pregnant as Sherlock himself, stretches out until fading into a soft sigh of, “Please.”

Stepping out of the shower, Sherlock towels dry with hurried hands. Half of his mind is silent, stunned into quiet by John’s discovery. The other half is a runaway train, a swirling miasma of questions and half-formed thoughts as he tries to read John’s tone and towel off his long legs.

Hair still dripping, Sherlock wraps the towel about his waist, no longer needing to hide his changing form, and enters the bedroom. He isn’t entirely ready to face the music but left with little choice in the matter.

John is seated on the edge of the mattress, there on their shared bed, his back stiff and straight, his hands settled peacefully in his lap.

Studying the rigid line of his shoulders, hair dripping slow trickles of water down his neck, Sherlock pauses in the middle of the room. John lifts a hand and holds it out, a silent invitation that Sherlock can’t help but oblige. He crosses the room on bare feet and takes the offering, fitting his long fingers through the gaps between John’s shorter reach, until their hands lock, and John draws Sherlock between his open legs. The urge to kneel there in abject supplication washes over him, an impulse Sherlock fights against with gritted teeth as he struggles to remain focused. It’s never been something they’ve done, and not something John has ever expected, and now hardly seems the time to give in to his baser instincts.

Sherlock refocuses and looks down into John’s dark, tense eyes.

“How long?” John’s voice is steady, perfectly level as if he is inquiring after the weather rather than questioning Sherlock’s lies.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock can only look at him with an expression he feels must look pathetic in its desperation. The words won’t come, _still_ won’t come, and John stares at him until he sighs. He reaches out with his empty hand and lays it over Sherlock’s stomach, just above the towel, where the soft swell of his belly begins.

“Please, Sherlock,” he whispers. His eyes are on his hand, and Sherlock can’t read his face.

Sherlock’s inhale is deep and unsteady, shaking its way over his bottom lip and past his tongue to sweep into his lungs and aching chest. On the exhale, a heavy rush of air, he says, “Thirteen weeks.” He watches John’s eyes close, the corners creasing with little wrinkles that make Sherlock want to reach out and smooth them away. He does, tries to, until John catches his hand, leaving a cooling spot of warmth on Sherlock’s stomach. Expecting John to push him away, his breath catches when John surprises him by bringing the hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s palm.

His eyelashes flutter open, and Sherlock is stunned again, this time by the glow of John’s eyes. There’s a dampness there, the hint of tears, and Sherlock tries to decide if they are from anger, sorrow, or joy. He settles on a mix of all three, confirmed by the rough quality of John’s voice when he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 _I don’t know,_ rises to Sherlock’s lips, but he bites it back and tries to do better because John deserves that, deserves better than that. Better than Sherlock’s lies. But it’s too late to fix that, it’s gone and happened, and all he can do now is try to be honest.

“I was scared,” he whispers, an admission that rises deep from in his core, makes his lips press together in a grimace.

John drifts another light kiss against Sherlock’s palm. His eyes are unblinking as he looks up at Sherlock. “Why?”

Sherlock can only shake his head because the answer is _I don’t know_ again, but this time it is all he has. He stares at John and begs for him to understand. And, to his relief, John does. As unlikely as it is, John does, and Sherlock nearly wants to shake apart with the immense insanity of it all.

He doesn't deserve John Watson, but he has him because John thinks Sherlock _deserves_ _him,_ and that simple fact is earth-shattering.

“I love you,” he whispers. His eyes squint beneath the weight of the words, lips pressed together tightly against the urge to plead with John to know how strongly he means them.

“I know.” John closes his eyes for a brief moment, sighs and slowly opens them again. He manages a small smile, one that makes the ground shake beneath Sherlock’s feet as his world flips upside down. “I know you do. I love you, too, Sherlock. I just… I wish you’d told me.”

“You’re not… are you angry?” The question rushes out of Sherlock in a gasp, followed by a desperate noise that he won’t call a whimper when John sweeps him into his arms and murmurs adoration against his curls.

“I’m not _happy_ about it, Sherlock, but I’m not angry," he whispers, the words fierce against Sherlock's damp hair. "I don’t love that you thought you needed to hide this from me, but I’m not mad. How could I be? You were only doing what you thought you had to. Honestly, I’m shocked I didn’t figure it out myself.” John’s mouth is a wry curl. “I guess I was just caught up in the thought that something might be wrong.” Shaking his head and leaning back, John gently pulls away from Sherlock’s clinging fingers. He reaches up to cup Sherlock’s face between his palms, thumbs stroking over sharp cheekbones. Patient as ever, he waits for Sherlock to meet his eyes, to see his smile.

Sherlock fixates on it, wide-eyed, hanging on John’s every word.

“If I’m anything, I’m relieved. You’re amazing, you know that? Bloody amazing. You’re doing this, making this… _entire human being_ , a bit of both of us, all on your own. God, Sherlock, _of course_ I’m not mad at you." John shakes his head, pulling in an unsteady breath as he sighs, "I love you, and I love the baby you’re growing. Mad doesn’t even come into it unless you count how _madly_ in love with you I am.” John’s smirk is purely amazed, lighting up his tired face.

Sherlock blinks, his vision hazed by the moisture rising at the corners of his eyes, clumping his eyelashes into thick, clinging shapes. _Damn hormones._ Fingers clutching John’s shirt, Sherlock shifts onto the bed, straddling John’s lap as he bends to press his cheek to John’s. “I don’t…” he pauses, chooses the words carefully, asking, “You don’t find me… this isn’t strange, how I’ve changed?”

Hands pluck at his shoulders, trying to shift him back, but Sherlock presses closer to keep from having to see whatever John’s face might show him. Accepting his need for privacy, John instead slides his fingers into Sherlock’s damp curls. He massages his scalp, easing some of the tension resting heavily throughout Sherlock’s body.

“I think you’re perfect,” John murmurs. His head turns, lips and nose drifting over Sherlock’s jaw. “Always. I _always_ think so.” Sherlock feels the coy little smile before John adds, “Yes, even when you’re a menace. But especially now. It’s natural, Sherlock. All these changes, they’re happening for a reason.”

“I’m aware, John,” Sherlock replies, sharper than intended, making him wince. But John just strokes his hair and nuzzles at the hollow beneath his jaw, his words soft and warm against Sherlock's neck.

“I know you’re aware, love. I just wanted to remind you.” His hands shift, slide over Sherlock’s shoulders and down to his chest. His palms cup the curve of Sherlock’s breasts, his touch gentle on the sensitive skin. Sherlock’s instinctive flinch softens into a quiet sigh as John massages the swollen flesh with practiced motions, relieving some of the tender ache. “These are as much a part of you as any other part of your body, Sherlock. I’m sure they might feel strange, but, honestly?” Voice going rough, John ducks down to rub his lips over the dip of Sherlock’s throat before murmuring in a tone bordering on rapturous, “They’re beautiful. _You’re_ beautiful. All these changes? Your breasts and, _god,_ your scent?” John inhales, groaning as his fingers knead and cup. The gesture makes Sherlock shiver and lean closer to increase the contact, feeling John smile against his neck again. “They only make me love you more.”

Sherlock’s breath catches, and he closes his eyes. But John isn’t finished.

His hands drop to Sherlock’s stomach, to where he grows daily, body making way for the life within. “And this? God, Sherlock, this is amazing. _You_ are amazing. I love you,” the last is a whisper, a soft breath against Sherlock’s skin, John repeating, in awe, “I love you.”

Sherlock sits back, finally meeting John’s gaze. He sees a seemingly bottomless well of adoration in John’s dark eyes, the sight of it setting free the tension in Sherlock’s chest at last. All the constricting, choking, suffocating weight of his fear falls away in the face of John’s steady support, his acceptance and love, and Sherlock finds himself nodding. His vision blurs, but it’s not worth noting, not when John is looking at him like this, like Sherlock is a miracle.

It’s as unlikely as the sky falling, and Sherlock can’t help but believe in it.

“I love you,” he whispers back, cupping John’s face between his hands, bracketing the wide smile spreading over John’s lips with his palms. “I love you, John Watson.”

Still grinning his unlikely smile, Sherlock’s unlikely man breathes, “I know.”

And, as unlikely as it is, Sherlock knows it, too.


End file.
